


knew it right then when I looked in your eyes

by elizaham8957



Series: another cinderella story [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut, Modern Royalty AU, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Romance, is this a cinderella au? like... kind of, jon and dany are smitten kittens, the other starks are here briefly as well, written for jonerys week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 13:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19395076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?” he says, but her smile disappears at that, eyes wide, full of trepidation, as she draws closer.“No,” she says, voice quiet but still insistent. “I don’t want you to tell me all your titles.”“What?” Jon manages, brow furrowing in confusion. She looks up at him, and for the first time, he sees fear in her eyes, apprehension, a little wariness. It makes her look so human, and Jon wonders how the magazines can ever reduce her down to the caricature they’re always selling.“If you don’t tell me who you are, I don’t have to tell you who I am."





	knew it right then when I looked in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Happy day 5 of Jonerys week. 
> 
> This fic is ridiculous and got away from me a lil but I also enjoyed writing it immensely. It is sorta a Cinderella au that is based on the Jonas Brothers song Strangers for today's prompt, which is songs/ lyrics, because I know what I'm about (and what I'm about is the Jonas Brothers and smitten Jonerys.) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! I'd love to know what you think. I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter as well! 
> 
> OH also Dany wears a pretty dress in this and [this](https://img.promgirl.com/_img/PGPRODUCTS/1628571/1000/wine-dress-LUX-LD3449-d.jpg) is what it looks like.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146793737@N07/48124186816/in/dateposted-public/)

Jon’s not even supposed to _be_ at this fucking party. 

The only reason he’s here is because he’s on break from university, back home at Winterfell for one blessed week before he’s buried to his eyeballs in work again. It’s his last semester, and his professors seem hells-bent on making sure that no one comes out of it alive. Or sane, at least. 

He had tried to plead with his mother, telling her he just wanted to stay home, spend time with his family. “All your cousins are going,” Lyanna had said with a stern look, his Uncle Ned deliberately avoiding his eyes. “Go spend time with them. Have fun, Jon. I feel like you never do that anymore.” 

Robb had finally convinced him, shoving a spare tuxedo at him as he grabbed his own from the closet, clearly freshly pressed. “It’s a fucking ball for the princess, Jon,” Robb had said. “The royal family’s not going to hold anything back. There’ll be endless free booze and lots of pretty girls.” 

The booze had swayed Jon more so than the pretty girls, and he had grudgingly allowed Robb to force him into the tux, and then again into the town car with Sansa and Arya. Arya had looked just about as pissed as Jon had to be dragged off to the Red Keep, and he had smirked at her, sharing in a good eye roll with her as Sansa prattled about all the royals that would be there.

He always forgets how big the Red Keep is until he’s driving by it— he’s only been inside a handful of times, and not anytime recently, either. Their driver ushers them all out of the car when they reach the end of the walk, the four of them fading into the crowd of hundreds of other people in their best dress flooding into the ballroom. 

Robb was right— the royal family has pulled out all the stops for the princess’s coming-of-age ball, the alcohol flowing freely and the cavernous ballroom practically sparkling, between the decor and the guests. Jon fidgets with the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes darting among the other people filling the hall, trying to give off the appearance that he belongs here.

He normally never goes to these things. His mum used to, before she got kicked out of the royal Houses, practically, for mothering a bastard child. Not that that swayed Ned Stark, who refused to make her leave Winterfell, helped her raise Jon to the point where Ned feels more like a father than an uncle, his children more like siblings than cousins. But. The royal family itself is much more stringent when it comes to propriety. 

It takes about five seconds for Arya to disappear— from the entire Red Keep in general, Jon wouldn’t be surprised— and then another few minutes for Sansa to spot Margaery and leave them as well. Jon follows Robb around like a lost puppy, focusing on the drink in his hand, wishing he were anywhere else as Robb flirts with the pretty girls that have flocked to him, hating how pathetic he must look. 

“I’m going to go find some fresh air,” Jon finally mutters, Robb only half paying attention as he nods, still absorbed in conversation with the daughter of one of the dignitaries from Volantis. He pushes past the crowds of people gathered in the hall, until finally he’s at the glass doors to the gardens, blissful, peaceful solitude beyond them. 

The gardens are a breath of fresh air, physically and metaphorically. The night air in King’s Landing carries just a bit of a chill to it, refreshing after the claustrophobic heat of the ballroom. Jon’s never been one for crowds, always more likely to hang around on the outskirts, observe from the outside. Probably part of being excluded from royal functions, despite his uncle’s aggravation over the rules, for most of his childhood. The blissful silence of the sprawling gardens is comforting, the only sounds as he wanders through the pathways the chirping of crickets and the soft trickling of a fountain off somewhere in the maze of hedges. He leans against a stone lamppost in a clearing he comes upon, closing his eyes, letting the quiet wash over him. 

That is, until a cry of frustration breaks the silence.

Jon opens his eyes, peering around in confusion for the source of the noise, before a woman comes storming into the clearing, and his breath catches. 

He knows who she is in an instant— even if he hadn’t watched her entrance to the ball, he wouldn’t need a series of people announcing her, rattling off all her titles to recognize her. The silver blonde hair is enough, hanging in soft curls down her back, but then her eyes— piercing, dazzling, full of fire— and the royal colors she’s dressed in… Jon knows, without a doubt in his mind, that this woman is the princess. 

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry,” she says, eyes widening a little as they fall on him. “I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.” 

Jon just shakes his head, still a little taken aback at her appearance. _Seven hells,_ she’s just as gorgeous as everyone says she is. He’s never met her before, but he’s instantly captivated by her, and she’s barely said any words to him. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says, before remembering her scream from a moment ago. “Ah, are you alright?” 

She seems to snap out of a trance, nodding her head, plucking at the delicate gold necklace around her neck absentmindedly. “Technically, yes,” she says, and Jon’s brow furrows in questioning. She huffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “My brother is just being… obnoxiously primeval.” 

Her brother, _the bloody king,_ Jon realizes. Still, he only shrugs, eyes still transfixed on hers. All the champagne he downed in an attempt to drown out Robb’s flirting gives him courage now. “See, when my brother’s like that, I just say he’s an asshole.” 

She laughs, then, the sound making his heart speed up. He’s seen interviews with her, videos and press and all of that, but the laugh she just gave him sounds decidedly _real,_ not some fake thing for the media. “You have brothers as well?” she asks.

“Aye,” he answers. “Sisters, too.” He leaves it at that, not really wanting to get into the complicated family relations. If he tells her he has cousins that are practically siblings to him, that plus his northern accent will be enough for her to figure out who he is. And he’s sure that the princess will want nothing to do with the bastard of Winterfell. 

She takes a step closer to him, her eyes filled with intrigue. Jon lets his eyes skim over her whole figure briefly— her dress is a dark red, almost like she mixed the two colors of her house together, with a v neck that plunges almost to her stomach, nothing but thin straps keeping the top in place. He swallows when he realizes the gauzy fabric of the skirt is see through, her legs visible through the layers. 

“Is that why you’re hiding outside?” she asks, and his brow furrows, confused. “Because your brother was being an asshole?” she clarifies. 

Jon exhales, shaking his head slowly, eyes still fixed on her. “No,” he tells her. “And I’m not hiding, really. I just wanted some fresh air.” He makes a face at the looming castle at the end of the hedges. “It’s not really my scene, in there.” 

“Hmm,” she says, stepping closer again. Her eyes are full of intrigue, in an expression that he’s sure mirrors his. “Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize you,” she says. “I know everyone in that hall. And yet, I don’t think we’ve ever met before.” 

“No, we haven’t. I think I’d remember meetin’ someone like you,” Jon says, and she smirks, though there’s a happy flush to her cheeks, delicate pink spreading across her porcelain features. He’s sure she knows that he recognizes her— her face is plastered across every bloody tabloid in Westeros, for the sake of the gods— but he doesn’t say her name or her titles, regardless. He lets her decide what she wants him to know. 

“Charming,” she says, inching closer to him. There’s only a foot or so of space between them now, and he can see the glint in her beautiful eyes, as clear and deep as the ocean. “Do you generally have such a talent with words?” 

Jon shakes his head, swallowing at the way she arches her eyebrows. “No, I usually don’t,” he admits with a shrug. “Must be the drink. That champagne they have inside is deceptively strong.” 

She laughs again, and Jon loves the shine of light in her eyes, the way they crinkle around the corners. “Handsome _and_ honest,” she says, eyes skimming over him, taking him in. “That’s a very rare combination for this crowd.” 

He shrugs again, unsure how to answer that, but there’s no denying the thump of his heart at her words. It may be the alcohol, or the sweet scent of the night air, or just _her,_ but there’s something about this moment that seems almost dreamlike, too good to be true. 

Her eyes fix on him again, her brow pulling together in the middle, scrutinizing him like he’s a puzzle she can’t quite figure out. He knows what’s coming next, the words pouring out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?” he says, but her smile disappears at that, eyes wide, full of trepidation, as she draws closer. 

“No,” she says, voice quiet but still insistent. “I don’t want you to tell me all your titles.” 

“What?” Jon manages, brow furrowing in confusion. He’s not really _opposed_ to keeping his nonexistent position from her, but still. Generally the first thing people in this crowd do is demand a bloody family tree. 

She looks up at him, and for the first time, he sees fear in her eyes, apprehension, a little wariness. It makes her look so _human,_ and Jon wonders how the magazines can ever reduce her down to the caricature they’re always selling. 

“If you don’t tell me who you are, I don’t have to tell you who I am,” she says, and he can hear the desperation in her voice. He nods immediately, wanting to banish that fear from her beautiful eyes. 

“Alright,” he says, and it’s then that he realizes how close she is, the exotic scent of her perfume intoxicating, the shine of her silver blonde hair absolutely mesmerizing. “Can I know just your first name, at least?” he asks. He knows it already, of course. But pushing that knowledge away is worth it, the happy gleam returning to her eyes. 

“Dany,” she says, those plush lips twisting just a little into a glimpse of a smile. It’s only been minutes, but already he wonders what those lips would feel like against his. 

“Dany,” he repeats, nodding. He’s never heard anyone call her that, the press and the royal family always using her full name. But he likes this better. It suits her more, her thinks. “That’s pretty,” he tells her, taking in the delicate flush of her cheeks, wondering if it’s the alcohol making him this brave, or if it’s just her. If she somehow draws out a courage in him that is generally nowhere to be found around beautiful women. 

“I’m Jon,” he offers, leaving it at that. No titles. No _bastard of Winterfell._ Just Jon. That’s what he prefers to be, most of the time, anyways. He wonders if she’d rather be just Dany too, instead of Daenerys Targaryen, fourth in line to the bloody throne of Westeros. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Jon,” she says, drawing even closer. He smiles at her, ever so slightly, feeling his heart speed up in his chest, loving the way his name sounds on her lips. 

He doesn’t want her to leave. Her eyes flit back to the palace, and he knows that she probably has to. This is supposed to be _her_ ball, the place where she entertains all the dignitaries and picks herself a fancy husband. But there’s a part of himself that wants to be selfish, pull her away from it all. 

He feels like there’s a part of her that wants that as well. 

“Do you have to head back?” he asks, meeting her eyes. They’re exquisite, he can’t help but think, pulling him in, refusing to let him go. 

She shrugs, gaze still fixed on his. “I should,” she admits, worrying her lip. Gods, he wants to lean down and kiss her, see if her lips taste as sweet as they look. It’s like she’s put a spell over him, somehow. 

Even with her words, she makes no effort to move, still standing right in front of him, like she’s waiting for him to say something else. Jon breaks his gaze away from hers, surveying the gardens around them, stretching on for what seems like miles and miles. 

“Seems pretty easy to get lost in these gardens,” he says, voice soft, before his gaze snaps back to hers. There’s a glint in her eyes when he meets them. “Probably a better way to spend the night, too.” He doesn’t say anything else, but he looks at her, the invitation clear in his eyes, if she wants to take it. 

“Probably,” she says, a little smile pulling at her lips, and when Jon offers her his arm, she takes it. 

***

She’s surprisingly easy to talk to, for a princess. 

He’s not sure how long they’ve been wandering. Dany seems to know where she’s going, so he follows beside her, their shoulders bumping, their fingertips brushing. Every time he feels her hand nudge against his, a jolt of electricity shoots up his arm, the feeling addictive.

“So what compelled you to come to this tonight, if parties aren’t your scene?” she asks, an eyebrow arching at him, and that little smirk playing at her pretty lips makes his heart jolt. 

He barely knows her— they’re practically strangers— and yet he feels like he’s known her an entire lifetime. 

“My fuckin’ brother,” Jon says, grimacing. She laughs at his words, and her hand brushes his again. Overcome with courage, he nudges it back, heart thumping when she doesn’t pull away, twining her fingers with his instead. 

“I’m home just for the week, on break from university,” he admits. “And he told me this would be _fun.”_

She looks up at him, eyes sparkling, like sunlight hitting the ocean. “And has it been?” 

He shrugs, fighting down a smile, trying to appear nonchalant, not give away just how captivated he is. 

“It’s been better than I expected,” he says, heart leaping into his throat, courage coursing through him at the feel of her hand in his, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. “Especially since I came outside.” 

Dany smiles at that, truly, bright and brilliant. It’s enough to make his heart falter, enough to make him want to do _anything,_ anything at all, just to keep her smiling like that. 

“What are you studying at university?” she asks.

“History,” he says with a shrug. It’s not something that has a very practical career path, but he enjoys it. He gives a humorless laugh, looking down. “I get my degree in a few months’ time, and I still have no bloody clue what I want to do with it.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, her smile warm. “You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.” 

“What about you?” he says, nudging her with his shoulder. They turn a corner, coming to a clearing, benches surrounding a large fountain. “Are you studying anything?” 

She shakes her head, looking down. “No. I wish,” she admits, eyes cast down. “Another thing that’s _beyond_ aggravating about my… family.” She still hasn’t told him who she is, though Jon’s certain she must realize that he knows. Still— there’s something nice about it, the anonymity between them. Like this, she’s not a princess, and he’s not a bastard. They’re just two people, pulled inexplicably towards each other. 

“What would you study? If you could.” Her eyes dart up to meet his again, a wistful smile playing at her lips. 

“Political science,” she says. “I’d like to start my own nonprofit foundation.” She looks up at him again, and they stop walking, Jon captivated by the expression on her face. 

“That’s my least favorite thing of all this,” she says, gesturing back towards the palace. “The pomp and ceremony. I would love to just _help_ people, do some good for the world. But the obstacles along the way of getting there—” She huffs, shaking her head. “Everything I do always has to be some strategic move. Something to reflect back on our image.” She pauses, and Jon pulls her a little closer, fingers wrapping around her other wrist, before he captures that hand in his as well. Her eyes are alight as they stare into his, blazing with determination, passion. He wants to get lost in them forever, never leave these gardens with her. 

“I don’t know. I just feel like I have so much power, so many resources at my disposal. I could really make a difference in the world.” Dany laughs slightly. “I know I have to consider my image. _Our_ image. I know how important it is. But there are so many people out there that are so badly off, and can’t do anything about it,” she says, voice growing quiet. “And I know I could make their lives better.”

Jon shakes his head, unsure what to say. Here is this woman, made out by the press to be charming and docile and gentle, a pretty face, nothing else. And yet she is brimming with fire, determination, passion. It’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that,” she says, huffing out a breath, her head still cast down, avoiding his gaze. She looks up, then, those eyes meeting his again, and Jon can’t breathe, so enthralled by the woman in front of him. Not the image the media portrays, or the crown presents. Just _Dany,_ the way she truly is. 

“What?” she asks, biting at her lip nervously. “Does that seem so ridiculous?” 

“No,” he says immediately. “Not ridiculous. Extraordinary.” He exhales all at once, heart thumping still, unable to keep the next words to himself. He just wants her to know. _“You’re_ extraordinary.” 

At the small smile she gives him, hesitant and sincere, he can’t help it anymore. He _has_ to kiss her. 

She meets him halfway as he surges forward, his hands dropping hers so that he can cup her face, tangle one hand in her silky hair as his lips mold to hers. Any hint of uncertainty is lost at the feeling of kissing her, his instincts taking over, the want to be wrapped up in her erasing any doubts. She sighs into his mouth prettily, and his tongue traces the seam of her lips, asking for entrance. She grants it to him immediately, and then it’s his turn to groan as her tongue meets his, lost in her warmth, like pure sunlight. 

He could kiss her forever, he thinks, and die a happy man. 

Her hands trail up his chest, grabbing at the lapels of his jacket, tugging him in closer to her. Jon is all too happy to oblige, letting his fingers roam across the bare skin of her back, marvelling at how smooth it is, like pure silk. He breaks away from her mouth, breath ragged, to trail kisses across her jaw, down her neck, feeling the rapid pulse right below her skin as she shakes her hair out of the way. His hands land right on her hips, pulling her flush against him, digging into her flesh possessively before they reach down, grabbing at her perfect arse. He can feel the heat of her body though her barely-there skirt, want coursing through him, completely caught up in her. 

“Jon,” she whispers, her voice needy, and his hands run up her sides, thumbs brushing over the side of her breasts as his lips return to hers. This kiss is slower, not as rushed and lust filled as their first. Instead, his tongue brushes languidly against hers, drinking in her sweet taste, determined to commit it to memory. 

“You know,” she whispers against his mouth, and he pulls away regretfully, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that all night.” 

He smiles slightly, a little bashful. _He’d_ been wanting to do that all night, but he hadn’t wanted to assume. Hadn’t wanted her to think he wanted her just because she’s the princess. 

“Sorry,” he says, lips quirking up, and she shakes her head, taking one of his hands, placing it right over her heart, fingers curling into the plunging neckline of her dress. The feel of smooth, tender skin under his palm has him half hard, his eyes squeezing closed, want and adoration mixing in his chest, a confusing, intoxicating tangle of emotions. 

“It’s alright,” she breathes. “I can think of some ways for you to make up for it.” 

He doesn’t need more invitation than that, leaning in to capture her lips again, before he draws away, leaving a trail of hot kisses from her neck all the way to her sternum. She arches into him, her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers buried in his hair, as his tongue darts out to taste the creamy skin between her breasts, her heart fluttering underneath his mouth. His hands drift up, playing with the neckline of her dress, some dim, fuzzy part of his brain telling him it’s probably a bad idea to take the _princess of Westeros’s_ dress off in the middle of the fucking gardens. But then he looks up at her, at the way her blue eyes have turned darker than the midnight sky, and settles for the next best thing, sliding his fingers underneath the gauzy fabric. 

She’s not wearing a bra, Jon discovers with delight, his hands cupping her breasts, the weight of them perfect in his calloused hands, her skin as smooth as silk. She shudders as his thumbs flick over their stiff peaks, and lust clouds his vision again, marvelling in the way she reacts to his touch, to the way his hands cover her breasts perfectly, like they were made for him to hold. He leans up, drawing her lips to his again, their kiss messy as teeth clash, hers tugging sharply at his bottom lip. It’s his turn to groan, now, and she smiles into the kiss, heat shooting straight to his groin, making him strain against his pants. Her fingers find their way under his suit jacket, shoving it off of him, and he takes his hands off of her just long enough to shrug it the rest of the way off, tossing it onto the bench behind them. 

Dany’s hands leave no time to waste, tugging at the edge of his shirt from where it’s tucked into his dress pants and slipping underneath, her fingers raking over the muscles of his abdomen, and he shudders against her, one hand leaving her breast to cup her face, angle her head so he can kiss her deeper, drink in the sweetness of her mouth against his. 

“Dany,” he murmurs against her mouth, pulling away from her regrettably, gasping for breath. She seems to have stolen his ability to breathe, as well— not that he’s really complaining. “Can I taste you?” he asks, rational judgement erased by the roar of lust, the want flowing through his body hotter than flames. He’s never felt so strongly about a woman _ever_ before in his life— not even Ygritte. It should scare him, how much he feels after so little time, but it doesn’t. Somehow it just feels inexplicably right. 

“What?” she asks, eyes wide, a little hazy, but he just pushes her forward gently, till the backs of her legs are knocking against the stone bench, and she sits. He sinks to his knees before her, not particularly caring if he dirties Robb’s borrowed tux pants, taking her skirts in his hands instead, raising the hem slowly, revealing her gorgeous legs inch by inch. He looks up at her again, making sure this is alright with her, but she doesn’t even need to say any words— the heated gaze she fixes him with speaks volumes. 

Jon pushes her skirts back up around her waist, giving himself access to those creamy thighs, what lies between them. He lets his lips trail up that delicate skin, loving the way she shudders underneath his touch, the gauzy material of her skirt brushing against his forehead. She tries to bite back a moan— unsuccessfully, he thinks with a glint of triumph— as his fingers hook in the lacy material of her panties, tugging them out of the way, before he cannot wait anymore, and his lips are upon her. 

She tastes sweet as heaven, her back arching against his palms as she cries out at the first stroke of his tongue, her thighs clamping around his head. It’s almost suffocating, being surrounded completely by her, but it’s a feeling he welcomes gladly, reveling in her mewling noises of pleasure as his tongue parts her folds, dips inside her. He is intoxicated by her warmth, her taste, her apparent desire sparking his own, making his blood run even hotter. His teeth graze her clit, teasing, and the moan she lets out is so loud that he hopes they are truly alone in the gardens. 

_“Jaes toliot,”_ she hisses, and Jon smiles against her, strangely proud that he’s made her slip into Valyrian. Not that he has any idea what it means, but he gets the general idea. _“Ȳdra daor keligon,”_ she begs, and his tongue swipes at her again, not stopping until she’s coming apart with one last whine, his hands spanning her hips as he laps at her, drinking up her sweet juices until she’s come down from her high, chest heaving, eyes still pressed shut. He straightens up then, arms circling her, and his nose nudges against hers until her beautiful eyes open, glassy and dazed. 

“That _definitely_ made up for not kissing me sooner,” she says, voice quiet, and he chuckles, leaning in so he can kiss her again. A moment later, she pulls him up, and he sits next to her on the bench, swallowing as she climbs into his lap, her thighs straddling his own. His hands come up to pull her closer out of instinct, groaning in pleasure as she kisses him sweetly, her tongue dancing against his. 

Her skin is so warm, so soft, so _intoxicating,_ just like everything else about her. Their kiss turns hungrier, and Dany tugs at his lip with her teeth, before her mouth trails down his neck, one hand tugging his collar out of the way, the other twisted in his hair. Her hips grind into his, slowly, torturously, and he can feel himself growing even harder, certain she can feel it too. 

“Seven hells, Dany,” he chokes out, a hand twining in her moonbeam curls, bringing her lips to his again. She pulls away, slightly, her eyes meeting his, lips parted in something he can’t quite identify. 

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he whispers, voice hoarse, low, and he knows, then, that the look in her eye is reverence. 

She leans in to kiss him again, softer this time, and he smiles against her lips, happy to be lost in her for the rest of time. 

And then he hears it. 

_“Jon!”_ his brother’s voice calls, echoing through the gardens, and they both freeze. 

“Fucking hell,” Jon mutters, pulling away from Dany reluctantly. She climbs out of his lap as Robb’s voice echoes through the hedges again, both of them standing, Dany fixing her skirts.

“Jon, where the fuck are you?” Robb calls. “We have to leave. _Now!”_

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to Dany, fingers still stroking up her spine, reluctant to let her out of his grasp. This night has been like a dream, and he doesn’t want to wake from it. Doesn’t want to leave this bubble in the gardens, where it’s just the two of them. 

“It’s alright,” she answers, even though it’s everything _but._ Still, she rises on her toes, giving him one last kiss. “Thank you for tonight, Jon. Truly.” 

He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, and his heart swoops, knowing this has meant as much to her as it has to him. “Thank _you,”_ he returns, her smile soft and sweet. “I have to go,” he tells her, Robb’s voice growing nearer, and she nods, before he turns away, disappearing into the hedges. 

“There you are,” Robb says, his own curls mussed, bowtie a little skewed. “Come on, we have to go _now._ Arya’s about to have our House stripped of all its titles.” 

Jon doesn’t say a word, just follows behind his brother, until they come to Sansa and Arya, waiting for them at the limo. Sansa looks _pissed_ to be dragged away earlier, but Arya’s holding her hand like she just punched someone, which is decidedly more interesting. 

He vaguely hears on the drive back to Winterfell that Arya got into a fight with some pompous lord and broke his nose with her fist, but he can’t really focus on that. All he can focus on is silver hair, eyes like the sea, the sweet taste of her lips against his, the intoxicating warmth of her skin under his palms. 

And it’s then that Jon realizes he’ll probably never see her again. 

That revelation crashes down upon him, heavy and suffocating, his chest feeling tight suddenly. She doesn’t know who he is. He hadn’t given her anything but a first name. He knows who she is, sure, but what’s he supposed to do— go to the Red Keep and knock on the door, demand to see her? That idea is laughable at best. He doubts the royal family would be alright with their princess caught up with the bastard of Winterfell. 

“Hey,” Robb says, pulling Jon’s attention away from his morose thoughts. “Where’s my suit jacket?” 

Jon groans. “I left it in the gardens,” he says. “When you came rushing in. I forgot about it. I’m sorry.” But he’s not, really— it’s with Dany, still, draped across that bench where she had climbed into his lap like it was the place she truly belonged. He hopes she still has the jacket. Hopes she looks at it and remembers him, like the bloody fool he is. 

She’s a princess, with a dozen or more suitors lining up, all much finer matches than he could ever hope to be. 

Still, when he finally collapses in his bed, eyes shutting immediately, all his dreams are of her. 

***

He doesn’t mean to, but he spends the next two days moping. 

He tries to be present. Tries to talk with his cousins, his mother, his uncle. Tries to enjoy the time back in Winterfell before he has to return to school. 

But every thought is consumed with her. The soft shine of her eyes, the lilt of her smile, the taste of her lips. He can’t get her out of his mind, try as he might. 

He goes into a store on his drive back to the keep one day, just to grab a snack, and there she is, plastered on the front of every tabloid at the register. The picture is of her in that dark red dress, and Jon can imagine how the fabric felt as he pushed it out of the way, his hands cupping her breasts like his only purpose in the world was to worship her. 

_Princess Problems!_ the headline reads. _Daenerys Targaryen is noticeably absent from most of her own ball, before she resurfaces and refuses to pick a husband!_ His heart thunders, looking at her there, thinking of her turning away all those men. He hardly lets himself dare to hope it’s because of _him._

He leaves the store without buying anything, hardly able to focus on the road ahead as he drives back. 

Once he’s past Winterfell’s front gate, he drives faster than he should down the drive, pulse still racing, unable to get her out of his mind. Gods, he’d spent less than an evening with her, and still she consumes his every thought, completely inescapable. He throws the car into park in front of the house, slamming the door harder than necessary, stalking towards the front steps. 

It’s then that he freezes, because _she’s_ there. Sitting on the steps, his suit jacket folded next to her. 

He just blinks at her, sure that this isn’t real, that she’s not really here. His mind is just playing a cruel trick on him, making him dream that’s she’s here before him. But then she rises, takes a step towards him, her brows arching in amusement. Her hair tumbles down her back in moonbeam waves, the front part braided like a crown. She’s wearing much more casual clothing today than the other night— just a deep blue dress, paired with soft gray boots. Still, she’s the most beautiful, regal thing Jon’s ever seen. 

“Dany?” he asks, still transfixed. She just nods, still not speaking. He’s still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream of some sorts. 

“What are you doing here?” he finally manages to get out, and she smirks again. Still, there’s a glint of apprehension in her eyes, the same he recognizes from the beginning of their conversation, when she’d begged him not to ask of her titles. He wants to step forward, pull her into his arms, kiss away all those fears. But he doesn’t, staying rooted on the spot, unable to move even if he wanted to. 

“Looking for you,” she answers, as if that is the natural conclusion to his question. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s just still too scared to let himself hope. He opens his mouth, prepared to ask how she found him, but she seems to understand his unspoken question, cutting him off before he can manage to get any words out. 

“There weren’t _that_ many Northern houses in attendance the other night,” she says, eyebrow quirking. “And you said you had brothers and sisters, so it had to be a big house, with other people your age in the family. And this,” she says, holding up the tuxedo jacket with a smirk, “has a direwolf embroidered inside.” 

His heart drops to his stomach, because this might be even _worse_ than never seeing her again. She thinks he’s a bloody _Stark._ That’s why she’s here. But he’s not, and he can’t offer her everything his cousins can. He can only offer her the disappointment that comes with bearing a bastard’s name. 

He opens his mouth again to tell her this, tell her who he _truly_ is. “Daenerys, I’m—” he begins, but she cuts him off again, doesn’t let him continue. 

“I know you’re not a Stark,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. There’s such a casual indifference to her statement painted across her face that Jon can’t help the way his heart thumps with hope. 

“And?” he asks, hardly daring to let himself dream. 

She walks closer to him, a hand drifting up to rest against his chest, fingers hooking in the collar of his shirt as her palm rests over his heart. He’s positive she can feel it racing. 

“And,” she says, leaning closer, her nose nudging his. “I don’t care.” 

It’s with those words that he lets himself truly believe. 

He surges forward, hands snaking around her waist, pulling her right up against him as he captures her lips with his. She tastes just as sweet as he remembers, her tongue meeting his as he coaxes her mouth open with little protest, swallowing her soft sigh of pleasure. It’s the sweetest sound Jon’s ever heard. 

He wants to spend the rest of his days wrapped up in her, breathing in her sweet scent, drinking from her soft lips. He wants to map out every inch of her skin, worship her like she’s one of the Old Gods themselves, give her everything in the world that he possibly can. 

“Do you really mean it?” he asks, not sure he will be able to handle it if she tells him no. But she pulls back from him, hands still twisting in his hair, carding through the mess of dark curls. 

“I do,” she says, eyes drifting shut briefly, dreamily. “My brother is a little… _less_ lenient, but I’m done caring about what he thinks as well.” She smiles at him, softly, sweetly. “I’m done living my life for other people. I’m going to do what _I_ want now. And I want you.” 

His heart is racing at her words, and he’s half certain it will jump from his chest entirely. If it does, he’ll give it over to her without a moment’s hesitation. She’s consumed his every thought since that night, and though the knot of emotions in his chest, significant and heavy, should scare him— it doesn’t. Because she is here, and that’s all he cares about. 

“Why?” he whispers, nudging his nose against hers. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complainin’,” he adds, and they both laugh, Jon reveling in the sound of hers, soft and delicate as bells. “But why me?” 

She closes her eyes, drawing closer to him, before they flutter open again, looking up at him through her lashes, though they do nothing to obstruct the bottomless blue. “Do you know how often people look at me for _me?_ Like I’m a real person, not just some idea they can fawn over? _”_ she asks, her forehead still pressed to his. Jon raises a hand, twining his fingers through her moonbeam locks, keeping her close. He’ll keep her close as long as she’ll let him. 

“I don’t,” he admits, and she smiles smally. 

“No one really ever has, before you,” she says. “You seem to be the first person who doesn’t care that I’m royalty.” 

“I’ve never been one to get hung up on titles,” he murmurs, unable to fight back the smile tugging at his lips. She smiles in return, rising on her toes to kiss him again, long and sweet. 

“You make me feel like no one ever has before,” she says, their lips a mere breath away, the scent of her enveloping him, intoxicating. She inhales again, and Jon’s fingers trace over her spine, never wanting to let go. “You make me feel like _me.”_

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, how to put words to the bundle of emotions taking hold in his chest, the way she’s sinking into his heart already. So instead he dips forward to kiss her again, hoping that everything he can’t find the words for is conveyed through that. 

When they pull away again, the look in her eyes lets him know she understands. 

“So, Jon Snow,” Dany says, and he can’t help the way his heart thumps at the sound of his full name on her lips. No scorn, no mocking, like there generally is when people spit his surname back at him. There’s nothing in her tone but reverence, adoration. For _him._ Bastard name and all. 

“How would you like to go on a date with a princess?” she asks, and he smiles a little, ducking closer, his nose brushing against hers. 

“I’m not sure about a princess,” he says, his fingers stroking over her sides as her hands play with his loose curls. “But with _Dany…”_ he says, and her smile is wide like sunlight. He bends down to kiss her again, and her lips taste like the future. 

“I can think of nothing I’d like more.” 


End file.
